


Thoughts

by ashes_and_ashes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memories, Whump, World War 2, pre serum stucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:38:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashes_and_ashes/pseuds/ashes_and_ashes
Summary: They are 17, now, the war still raging around them. They’ve been lucky so far, but Bucky knows that this luck can’t hold for much longer. Steve is at the recruiting station everyday, a different state on his form every time, and yet all Bucky can do is stare at the envelope placed in front of him at work. His name is printed in bold letters on the paper, James Buchanan Barnes, and the only thing that runs through Bucky’s Head is Steve.





	Thoughts

Bucky’s falling, wind whispering in his ears, snow covering his face, the screeching of the train on top of him. A scream rises in his throat, as he stares up at the sky above him.

And suddenly, he’s 9 years old again, cracked shoes and dirty clothes, sitting on top of the swing set in the park. It was a hot day, a dry summer. He sees dead grass drying in the cracks in the pavement, hear the wind whistling through the trees.

And he hears them. There’s Ricky King, 3 years older then him, towering over all the boys in the neighborhood. He’s laughing, a group of older boy around him, all kicking at something hidden in the middle of the throng. Bucky finds himself leaning forwards, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay in the middle. The crowd shifts, and Bucky sees a tiny figure, all bones and cuts and the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. The boy is bleeding, marks all over his face, yet he still pushes himself off the ground, glares at Ricky, and says something that makes Ricky flush and punch him square in the jaw. And Bucky is angry, because surely the boy knows that talking will only get him more hurt? So he sits there, and watches the fight.

After 10 more minutes, the boys leave, and Bucky hops down off the swing set and heads over to check on the boy. He’s curled into a ball, yet when he glances up, his eyes are filled with defiance. Pain fills his every move as he slowly pushes himself to his feet, still glaring at Bucky. And Bucky is speechless, because why would you let yourself be tortured like that? He doesn’t know what to do, so after a while, he says, “Um…are you ok?” The other boy nods his head, tears welling up in his eyes, desperately trying not to cry. Bucky is still frozen, helpless. He puts his arms around the other boy, because that’s what his mother did when he was sad, and gradually, the boy stops crying. He lets go, looks at the other boy in the eyes and says, “Hi. I’m Bucky.” The other boy smiles back, eyes red from crying, and says softly, “Hi. I’m Steve.”

And they are 13 now, young and careless and rebellious. Steve is still small, bones protruding from his chest and half a foot shorter then everyone else in school. Bucky is taller, broader, dark hair and darker eyes, and they are inseparable. They spend the days at school, learning math and english and science. Afterwards, they go to Steve’s place, into the forest behind his house, and Steve draws and Bucky climbs trees and they are happy.

And he’s 13, getting looks from the girls in his class. They giggle, hide behind the gates at recess, and he sometimes hears them whispering when he exits the classroom. He’s confused, because he’s never noticed these things, never noticed anything besides Steve, and he wonders if something is wrong with him.

They’re 14. Bucky is tall, towering over Steve, who is still skin and bones and blue eyes. It’s winter, bitterly cold, and they can’t light the fire because logs cost too much. They lie huddled in the narrow bed, Steve against the wall and Bucky pressing close to him. Steve is barely breathing, his last asthma attack not even 10 minutes ago. His shivers, the movement shaking the entire bed, and Bucky presses closer. He hesitates, because he is 14 and should he really be sharing a bed with his friend? And he hates himself for it, hates that little voice of doubt in his head because Goddamn it, he’s your best friend for Christ sakes Bucky! but he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. He’s noticing things, the curve of Steve’s wrist as he turned the page on the sketch book, the way his hair fell over his face, how his cheekbones and nose casted a shadow over his lips when the sun was in the right place in the sky. And Bucky is scared, because this wasn’t the way things were supposed to be like? He almost edges away from the sleeping figure of Steve, but another wave of coughing overwhelms Steve’s thin body, and Bucky is back to his old spot on the bed. He reaches over, wraps an arm around Steve’s bony ones and holds him tight.

And they are 15, and Steve still can’t fade from Bucky’s mind. He tries to hide it, destroy it, burry it with wine and women and dancing. He takes his shoes, shines them until you couldn’t see the cracks in them, smiles to hide the holes in his heart. He spends the days working at the docks, hauling box after box after box. The money is barely enough to get by, the work exhausting, but Bucky can’t quit, because he now has to support not only himself, but Steve as well. And it hurts. Everyday, 5 in the morning until 7 at night, hauling boxes and tying knots, until his back is screaming and his fingers are bloody. He waits outside of the apartment that him and Steve share, looking at himself in the shard of mirror hanging outside of the front door, pasting a smile on his face and he clenches his teeth hard. He knows that if he breaks down, Steve would be out on the streets, and he would not, could not abandon Steve. He’s 15, working his ass off, trying to support 2 orphans, and still when he falls asleep, all he can see are Steve’s blue eyes in his dreams.

They are 16, the world going to absolute shit around them, and all Steve wants to do is fight for his country. “They are ENSLAVING people over their Buck,” he says one evening, glaring at the radio set in front of them. “I need to help. I can’t…I can’t just stay here and do nothing!” Dread pools in Bucky’s stomach, because how can he protect Steve if he is somewhere in a goddamn war zone? but he holds it together, smiles, manages a small “calm down pip-squeak,” and exits the room. He’s scared, because he knows that while the army may never take Steve, they’d sure as hell take him, and then Steve would be on his own. He can’t handle that, the thought of leaving for some separate country, and never seeing Steve again. It’s worse though, because despite all that’s happened, he can’t stop having those dreams. Dreams of Steve’s hands on his body, and those blue eyes, and kissing him, Bucky’s hands tangling in his hair. He’s disgusted with himself, knows that this is wrong, but he can’t decide if he is relieved or wrecked that he may leave without ever telling Steve Rogers the words I love you.

They are 17, now, the war still raging around them. They’ve been lucky so far, but Bucky knows that this luck can’t hold for much longer. Steve is at the recruiting station everyday, a different state on his form every time, and yet all Bucky can do is stare at the envelope placed in front of him at work. His name is printed in bold letters on the paper, James Buchanan Barnes, and the only thing that runs through Bucky’s Head is Steve. Because the day had finally come, the clock had run out. He knew that they were on borrowed time, knew that every moment was another moment lost, but goddamn him, he thought they would have more of it. And he knows he’s going to die there, die without ever saying goodbye to Steve, and he can’t think, his breath coming in tight bursts. He stands up, shoves his chair underneath the table with a violent jerk, and somehow he is standing outside the apartment, in his uniform, his hat cocked to one side, and trying not to fall apart.

He opens the door, finds the window open and sees a note saying On Roof. He climbs out the window, sees Steve on the roof, and his heart catches in his throat because he is so freaking beautiful, all golden and shadows, and all he wants to do is to kiss him. Steve comes over, smiling, greets him with a simple “Hey Buck.” He leans over, puts his arm around Bucky, and Bucky feels his heart hammering in his chest. Steve notices this, turns his head towards Bucky, a confused expression on his face and goddamn him in hell, but Bucky can’t take it. They are only a short distance apart, and Bucky leans forwards and meets Steve’s lips with his own. And Steve stiffens for a moment, and Bucky nearly pulls away, petrified because shit, shit, shit what if he didn’t like me in that way?? And he is about to apologize, beg his forgiveness when Steve pulls him closer and kisses him again.

They are 2 boys, rain pouring down on top of them, buckets and buckets of it, and yet all either of them can do is breathe each other in. And Bucky pulled away, looking at Steve Rogers in the eyes, and thinks how can I let this go?

And as Bucky falls, he remembers. Days and days of golden summer, crisp fall. Lying in beds as boys, pressing Steve against his body. Sitting in trees, Steve drawing and Bucky reading. Snowball fights and sleepovers and campfires and how the light reflected off of Steve’s face. 2 boys kissing on the rooftop, not giving a damn what others thought as the skies opened on top of them. And he was grateful. Grateful for all that stolen time, those early days and late nights, that hot summer day long ago, because without Steve, Bucky knew that his life would be meaningless.

So Bucky fell, thousands of miles off a steel train, and the last thing he saw was the blue eyes of the boy he loved best.


End file.
